


To say you never felt

by Merel



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Biting, Couch Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Frottage, Guilt, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Fullmetal Alchemist: Conqueror of Shamballa, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26686084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merel/pseuds/Merel
Summary: Jean had offered him the couch, offered him food, and the only thing he got back was judgemental looks about his apparent lack of hotelier skills, like he was supposed to prepare a feast for his former commanding officer who appeared on a dark and stormy night like in some kind of murder mystery novel.
Relationships: Jean Havoc/Roy Mustang
Comments: 11
Kudos: 31
Collections: Equivalent Exchange 2020





	To say you never felt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> 🎁🎁🎁

“General Mustang?” Whatever Jean had expected to see when he opened the door, the former Flame Alchemist dripping rainwater in the hallway of his apartment complex wasn’t it. The man was wearing a military rain-parka, so he probably wasn’t the worst off, but his shoulders were slouched and there was a steadily growing puddle on the tiles.

“Corporal.” 

“What?” 

“Corporal Mustang.” 

“Ah, sorry, sir.” He winced, shit, that also wasn’t right. “I mean-” 

_Corporal_ Mustang suddenly stepped forward, into the door opening, into _Jean_ if he hadn’t taken a step back. He didn’t stop there, pushing forward into the small hallway and walking through the open door into the living room, dripping all over the carpet. 

“What are you- Why are you here?”

“The lieutenant is still angry at me.” 

“Okay.” Well, if he was still calling Captain Hawkeye _lieutenant,_ then yeah, he could see her bein’ mad at him. Plus all of the other shit he pulled. It couldn’t have been more than a month since he showed up in the middle of an invasion, gave orders, and fucked off in a hot-air balloon. Mustang looked around his living room.

“Where can I put my coat?” 

“There’s a coat rack here.” 

Mustang put his backpack next to the couch and turned, walking towards Jean again. He took off his parka, but while that was military issue, he wasn’t wearing his uniform. Instead he was wearing a white button-up with visible sweat-stains under his armpits and practical jeans, the kind Jean’d wear, but never figured Mustang would own. 

“Can I use your shower?” 

What was happening. “Sure. It’s, uh, in the bathroom around the corner.” 

Mustang nodded, and Jean followed him back into the living room. He lifted his backpack onto the couch and dug through it, pulling out a t-shirt and sweatpants. No towel, no soap. He disappeared into the bathroom before Jean could say anything else. He grabbed his book from where he put it on the table, and tried to read further, but his brain was a confused mess. Why now? Why him? Why not Breda, or Falman, or Fuery? 

His brain didn’t become any less confused when Mustang stepped out of the bathroom, hair wet, t-shirt plastered to his skin, but the thing that immediately drew Jean’s attention were the scars on his upper arms. Silver lines, clean cuts, Bradley’s sword. He knew, from hindsight, that it had tactically been the best plan. Let him think Mustang had left, catch him off guard, but it didn’t make him feel any less guilty for not _being_ there. They were all supposed to have Mustang’s back, but they’d been useless, a distraction, while Mustang had bled and fought and almost died. 

“Can I stay here?” 

Jean shook himself out of his thoughts. Not like he hadn’t been expecting the question, with the time he’d shown up at. “Yeah, the couch is free.” 

Mustang glanced at the couch. “Thanks.”

Jean was bad at picking up Mustang’s sarcasm, he knew that, but he couldn’t fully shrug off the edge laced through that word. “Did you eat? There’s some leftover potatoes in the fridge.” Mustang stared at him. “If you’re hungry.” 

“Raw potatoes?” 

“No, boiled? You can bake ‘em in some oil, whatever.” 

“Oh, I was feeling like making rösti.” 

“I have raw potatoes in the cupboard, if you want to-” 

“No,” Mustang sighed, “I’ll take the boiled potatoes.” 

Oh, okay, so he hadn’t imagined it. Guy barged into his apartment, Jean offered him the couch, offered him food, and the only thing he got back was judgemental looks about his apparent lack of hotelier skills, like he was supposed to prepare a feast for his former commanding officer who appeared on a dark and stormy night like in some kind of murder mystery novel. 

Mustang went into the kitchen, opening cupboards and grabbing stale herbs from his spice rack like he owned the place. Sure, why not? Use his soap, his couch, his kitchen. No problem at all, happy to be of service. Not like he didn’t have to go to work tomorrow, like he hadn’t planned to go to fucking bed. He sighed and went into the bathroom himself. If it turned out that Mustang had to use his toothbrush too, he was just gonna kick him out. 

No such thing happened though, Mustang ate his herby potatoes, cleaned the dishes, and fished a toiletry bag out of his backpack, without Jean having to say a word. Fine, he could stay. Jean stopped pretending to read his book and dug a blanket out of the linen closet. The only one was a gift from his mom, a scratchy wool blanket that he only used when it was cold enough to freeze his nuts off. Well, Mustang would have to live with it.

He threw the blanket on the couch, just as Mustang emerged from the bathroom. He had a smudge of toothpaste next to his mouth. Jean motioned to it. “You got something, uh.”

Mustang frowned, and put his thumb over his mouth, his tongue darting out between his parted lips to wet it, and swiped it over the toothpaste. Uh, yeah, okay. Jean needed sleep.

“Oh, well, goodnight.” He mumbled, and brushed past Mustang to his bedroom. He closed the door behind him, muffling Mustang’s response, and went to bed, only pulling up the covers a normal amount.

* * *

He’d made it through half of his morning routine before remembering that a storm wasn’t the only thing that happened last night. He peeked into the living room, and the mop of black hair seemingly hadn’t moved since Jean left him on the couch. Should he wake him? He still had a job to go to, Hawkeye wouldn’t be happy if he showed up late, especially if she was angry enough at Mustang to not accept _oh, sorry, the former Flame Alchemist barged into my apartment and made himself comfortable on my couch_ as an excuse. 

Jean silently walked around the couch, but Mustang had his eye closed. His other eye was probably also closed. He didn’t really know if it could open, or if it just wasn’t there anymore, he hadn’t seen it after the accident. Same problem with his eyebrows, were they both furled or was the other one missing? Either way, waking him up didn’t seem like the best idea. He didn’t seem to be sleeping peacefully, but a guy needed his sleep, after all. 

He went back to the kitchen and had himself breakfast, firm slices of bread with butter and cheese, and a cold glass of mostly-fresh milk. He usually had coffee, but he’d never been able to get the near-boiling kettle off the stove before it whistled. He lit his second cigarette of the day, inhaling the smoke and tapping the ash in the sink. Now what. He had to leave in a few minutes, and Mustang hadn’t gotten up. He went to the couch again. 

“Hey.” 

Mustang didn’t move. Jean gently poked him in the shoulder. His face scrunched up and he shifted further under the blanket. One eye glared at Jean. 

“I’m leaving.” 

Mustang blinked. 

“For work?” 

Another blink. 

“There’s, uh, bread in the cupboard and butter and milk in the fridge, and more stuff, and things.” 

Mustang closed his eye and turned around on the couch, turning his back towards Jean. Well, okay then. “Bye, I guess.” 

Mustang groaned and pushed his face against the backrest. Yeah, he was just- he was just gonna leave. He grabbed his bag and pushed his cigarette out in the ashtray in the hallway. Mustang had hung his dripping raincoat over Jean’s jacket, so that was fucking great. Not that he wasn’t going to wear his other coat with the weather predictions, but it was the principle of the thing, especially with the four empty pegs. He’d need his jacket again eventually, but fuck knew if Mustang was still here when he came back. 

* * *

Captain Hawkeye had made someone cry today. Not Jean, thank fuck, some poor sergeant shmuck who’d grabbed the wrong forms and left her office tears down his face, but it was still enough that Mustang’s strangely (for him) subdued “Did she look mad?” made him burst out in laughter. 

Mustang grimaced. “I suppose that’s a yes.” 

“Yeah, that’s a yes.” Jean forced out, when he could breathe again.

Making a sergeant cry wasn’t the only thing she’d done either. Her eyes had wandered around, staring at each of Mustang’s old team for minutes at a time, Jean had barely dared to go to the bathroom out of fear of being confronted. Weekend, thank fuck, meant two days away from her gaze, but Mustang was still staring at him. Was still here. Would be here? 

“How long are you actually planning on staying?” 

Mustang shrugged. “I’ll see.”

He’d _see. He’d_ see. Barged into _Jean’s_ home, and _he’d see_ when he decided to leave. Hopefully it was a when, he wasn’t looking for a roommate, nevermind a freeloading former boss. “As a corporal, shouldn’t you be in the dorms?” 

“Yes.” 

“So why aren’t you?” 

“It would be in your best interest to pretend you never asked that question.” 

Did he? “Did you des-” 

“Never asked that question.” Mustang fixed him with a one-eyed stare. 

Right, he never needed to know anything, and whatever Mustang was doing didn’t include him, so he could fuck off. For a split-second the thought of _ordering_ Mustang passed his mind, but it was immediately dismissed by the part of his brain that did not in fact want to end up as an ashy heap on his carpet. Jean subtly switched topics. 

“Did you have anything to eat yet?” 

“I made soup for lunch, I haven’t had dinner.” 

There was no soup left, which meant that either Mustang had heated up a can and ate _all_ of it, or he’d literally made soup. Whatever, he’d do groceries tomorrow anyway, and replace half of the shit in his fridge and cupboards. “You want sandwiches or something?”

“Sure.”

They made and ate their sandwiches in an awkward silence. At least, Jean thought it was awkward. Mustang seemed to have no issue with it, humming through smothering his bread in strawberry jam. Kind of made him wonder what he had to eat up north for him to be this happy with a simple jam sandwich. From the short hour he visited the ramshackle outpost, it couldn’t be fresh bread. High chance of him only having hardtack with tea for breakfast, poor guy. 

There was an entire awkward silence evening in front of him, he usually went to the bar down the street on Friday nights, but either he’d drag Mustang along or he’d have to leave him here, both of which sounded unappealing. Or… he could break open a bottle of whiskey. It wasn’t drinking alone if there was someone else, after all, and alcohol loosened the tongue, so it wouldn’t be silent. It was a perfect idea. 

* * *

This was the worst idea. Whoever said that alcohol made people talk easier could go fuck themself. Mustang was staring into his second glass of whiskey, looking morose. He should have invited Mustang to the bar, at least there would have been people to watch, maybe play darts, instead of whatever this was. He was desperately trying to think of a topic to start with, complaining about work would be in really bad fucking taste. He took a sip of his whiskey, which was actually nice, a gift he’d gotten years ago from… fuck, from Mustang. Well, you were supposed to drink something gifted with the gifter, right? He was sure he’d heard that somewhere. The silence got thicker, and he took another sip, the alcohol burning down his throat.

“Uh, did you hear about Camilla Liedmeier?” He tried. “She got divorced again.” 

“The actress? No, and what do you mean again?” 

Well, Mustang was at least trying to sound interested. “This is her third divorce now.” 

“Huh, good for her. Don’t stand a chance with her anymore, though” He drained his glass. “The shit I missed.” 

“I’m guessing northern outposts don’t get a lot of Central gossip.” 

“Yeah, that’s the intent. I mean, it wasn’t all bad, don’t get me wrong, it was cold, but it was also very beautiful, lots of nature.” Mustang took the bottle and poured himself another glass. “There’s a way you meet yourself in the north.” He said it with a half-smile, like an in-joke, but Jean had no clue what the joke was. 

“Oh.” 

Mustang took a swig straight from the fucking bottle. Right, fuck, okay. Mustang handed him the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Jean put the bottle on the table, and when he looked back the glass was also empty. 

“Don’t worry, I have high alcohol tolerance.” He snorted. “At least before I left. Fuck.” 

“Not a lot of alcohol up there?” 

“No.” 

“So that’s why you’re in Central now? The alcohol?” 

Mustang slowly put his finger up and pressed against Jean’s lips. “Shhh, no fishing.”

A heat was spreading from the point of impact on his lips to his cheeks, the rest of his face, the rest of his body, he’d very much like for Mustang to take back his finger, thank you. Which he did, but not before closing some distance on the couch, scooting closer to Jean. 

“I hear they have really shitty alcohol up there, so I don't mind that they never put that in the provisions that they did and did not bring.” He frowned. “I need to stop talking.” 

“No, wait, what do you mean with _did not bring.”_

The look Mustang shot him, a mix of exasperation and fondness, didn’t do much against his growing worries. “They sometimes, quotation marks, forgot about me. I figured that was going to happen, so I always ordered a bit more than I needed, so I had a stockpile when it happened.” 

“What the fuck.” 

Mustang shrugged, like it was normal to let a guy starve to death. “Like I said, was ‘xpected, an’ they were really hush-hush about me bein’ there, with Drachma, I was kinda surprised you two managed to find me.” 

“Was mostly Breda’s doing, he figured shit out.” 

“Yeah, that’s, that would be him.” 

“But why-” Mustang shot him a warning glance. “No, no, why did you leave us?” 

“I- You wouldn’t understand.” 

“No, you’re bein’ mysterious about one thing, you can’t be about two and then- and eat my food and drink my whiskey.” 

“It’s my whiskey, and I’m not being mysterious.” 

Jean poked him in the chest. “You gave it to me, and you are, so don’t be, and explain. You left.” He swallowed away the chunk in his throat, shit, the alcohol really was getting to him, “You left us, ‘cause you felt like you had to, but now you’re back, so why’d you leave in the first place?” 

“Because,” and Mustang let out a short exasperated sigh, “every time that I thought, I’m done, I’m not going further, and then I did, and it didn’t get better. ‘n’ I thought, I’m gonna do it, I’m gonna leave, and I did, but I didn’t, so I had to go myself. Everything’s okay now, there’s, there’re laws, and a parliament, and it’s ‘cause I left.” 

Which was a lot of words, and Jean didn’t get all of them. “So you, if you want to go, and you don’t, it gets worse?” 

Mustang nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah, if I think _oh, I quit,_ but then I didn’t, it never got better. So I decided to quit, but I lived, so I left.” 

Something was adding up in Jean’s whiskey-addled brain. “Left for the north.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Cause you think you shouldn’t have lived.” 

“Yeah.” 

Oh. “‘s kinda messed up.” 

Mustang snorted and leaned against him. “Yeah.” 

Fuck, fuck, he was being stupid. He was having stupid thoughts. His type was homely, caring, sweet, blushing when he gave them flowers. Mustang smirked, drawled, and sharply poked at people’s (Jean’s) insecurities while coating his own in apathy, but now, his fingers drummed on the whiskey glass, he had a soft smile on his face, and he was a warm line at Jean’s side. 

Roy turned his head, Jean could feel his breath puff on his lips. This was maybe too close? He licked his lips to say something, and Roy’s eye snapped down, fanning out his eyelashes. “Your lashes are really long.” 

He hadn’t really expected an answer to that, but he also hadn’t expected Roy to push forward, into his space even more, until he felt the unmistakable sensation of lips on his own. His head was screaming at him that he should push Mustang back, say that he wasn’t interested in his former boss, but the rest of his body felt very fucking differently.

How long had it been since Jean invited a girl over? Shit, how long would it have been since Roy even _touched_ someone? Too long, fuck, far too long, for both of ‘em, he guessed, with the way Roy’s hands were roving over his chest and arms. Roy pulled back, and he was drunk, but that was fine, because Jean was drunk too, so it was okay. It was okay to grab Roy’s ass and lift him onto his lap. It was great that Roy let out a gasp and relaxed in his hold, breathing in Jean’s neck, pushing forward. He didn’t have the best ass, Jean had to admit, he’d had nicer asses, fuller and less bony, but this ass had a hot guy attached to it, so it wasn’t that bad. Roy started kissing him on his mouth again, with teeth, biting his lip, pulling, and it hurt, he could feel the sting through the alcohol. He followed, but Roy released his lip, leaning backwards. 

Roy’s eye was bright, flitting around his face, his chest, lingering lower than that, and he could feel a part of him sitting up and taking notice. His eyes caught Jean’s again, and he _smiled,_ a contrast from the hands suddenly and roughly cupping his face, a thumb pressing against his still-stinging lower lip. 

“Prettiest member of my team, you know that?” Roy purred. “Apart from me, of course.” 

“S-seriously?” He always figured that Hawkeye took that place, with her long blonde hair, her big brown eyes, and her... assets, she looked like the perfect secretary type. Jean had thought that when he’d first met her, though it only took less than an hour for him to be proven completely fucking wrong. 

“Yes, you’re very attractive.” 

“So, the stealing girlfriends stuff. Were you jealous?”

Roy hummed. “No, I knew I could have you if I tried.” 

_That_ short-circuited his brain really quick. “I didn’t mean- I meant if you were jealous of-”

“I know what you meant.”

“So why didn’t you?” 

“I was your superior officer.” He looked so fucking earnest, but the moment was gone when he smirked. “Keyword being _was.”_

Roy let go of his face and kissed him again, without teeth this time, messy and open-mouthed. Jean gave his ass a good squeeze, and Roy gasped into his mouth, fuck, that sounded good, but he felt a sharp tug on his head, and it was _his_ turn to gasp. Shit, this was sloppy, but Jean felt his head get lighter with every breath, sparks of pain and heat every time Roy tugged his hair, until he couldn’t handle it anymore. 

“Fuck, I need to, I can’t-” 

Roy leaned back, his pupil was full-blown, eye glassy, but his gaze was sharp. “What do you need?” 

“I- _fuck._ ” 

Roy'd already gone for his zipper, not even waiting for his answer, but that was fine, that was _more_ than fine. His hand was dry, and Roy also must have noticed, because he spit in his hand, and _fuck,_ why was that hot? Was it Roy? Was it the way he hadn’t thought twice about it, no hesitation, there was a problem, and he had a way to solve it? There was the sound of another zipper, the feeling of something hot and decidedly _not_ a hand joining in and Roy suddenly yanked his hair, sparks of pain and waves of pleasure combining in a confusing mess of dragging him further towards the edge, and Roy set a brutally effective pace with his hand, nipping his way up his neck, and Jean tried to push him off, away, fuck, he wanted this to last, but Roy had finally arrived at his mouth and _bit,_ and his hand _twisted,_ and _oh fuck,_ Jean was _gone._ He squeezed his eyes shut, sparks dancing across his vision, and he vaguely heard Roy saying something about how good he looked, fuck, his stomach hurt with it, his body turning boneless. 

“So- so fucking pretty.” 

He opened his eyes and met Roy’s eye, fever-bright and intense, and saw the moment Roy tipped over the edge himself, going off with a gasped _fuck._

Roy slumped against him, breathing heavily. It was so fucking tempting to lie there, Roy warm against his chest, but he could already feel the come cooling down, and he did _not_ want to deal with that mess dried-up. “Roy.” 

Roy groaned. 

“We need to get up, get cleaned.” 

He managed to get Roy in an upright position, dragging him to the bathroom and wetting two cloths. He was already fucking tired, bed sounded realy good right now, so he stripped down to his underwear. Roy did the same, though a bit more slowly. Alcohol or post-orgasm, Jean couldn’t tell. He pushed a gently swaying and humming Roy towards his bedroom, and Roy crawled under the covers, ending with his arms spread over the bed. 

“This is so nice, ‘s nice to have a big bed.” 

“Yeah, splurged a little-” 

"Fuck off." 

He slowly turned back to look at Roy. “What?” 

"Sorry, no, I was talking to him.” Roy’s hand flapped vaguely towards the corner of his bedroom. The empty corner, with no one in it. What the fuck. “He’s being a smartass again.” 

“Right.” He looked back at Roy, who had put his arm over his face, obscuring his other eye. “Uh, who?” 

Roy sighed. “No, ‘s not good to tell, he always thinks it’s funny. Asshole.” 

“Okay.” He stared at Roy for a few seconds, waiting for something more, but he didn’t say anything else. He looked back at the corner of the room, but nothing moved or made a sound. It was probably the alcohol. Yeah, that was it, Jean had done some weird things when he’d had too much to drink, and Roy’d had a lot. He shrugged it off, and got into bed next to Roy, who cuddled up to him almost immediately, warm, clingy, and kinda terrifying. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the mods of Equivalent Exchange for setting this up! I had a fun time writing for this, I love eyepatch Roy with all my heart, and confused yet horny Jean is also a lot of fun 😂.  
> If you want, leave a kudos and/or comment!


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